Heaven Bent To Take My Hand
by seeyoustandingthere
Summary: Another 'how did they..' inspired by Sarah McLachlan's 'Fallen'.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is another one of my 'how did they

_AN: This is another one of my 'how did they..' stories. I really believe I will write these until…well, until they are all told. And there are many._

_I didn't mean to write this – I was actually in the middle of a sequel to 'Three Months and I'm Still Breathing' as a lot of people asked if I was going to write more of that and I said no but then promptly found myself compelled to do so. So I went into the kitchen to do the laundry and ended up doing the washing up (Americans – that's 'doing the dishes'- the English apparently have to wash in one particular direction)._

_So here it is. And I really hope you like it. And the aforementioned other piece will be along shortly…_

_DISCLAIMER – you know they're not mine. You know if they were Sara would NEVER wear those huge bug glasses (you know the ones) and San Francisco would remain just another city and not the bane of our lives. _

_Lyrics are from 'Fallen' and belong to Sarah McLachlan._

_**We all begin with good intent  
Love was raw and young  
We believed that we could change ourselves  
The past could be undone**_

Sara was officially doing two things at once. Her hands were processing evidence, turning over the pages of a file that lay, innocently manilla, on the table before her. Her eyes were scanning the pages, pupils moving diligently in just the direction they were supposed to. But her mind, oh her mind was elsewhere, sliding her deliciously in and out of a beautiful fantasy in which there were a lot of open doors.

Now and again she wondered if other people did this, let their minds take them to other, better, more intoxicating places while they were working. She refused to narrow that field to wonder if _he_ did this. Somehow she couldn't imagine him thinking about her _at all_.

But she was thinking about him. She had been but three feet away from him for the most part of her shift, and was just now recovering. This was how it went. Saturation, irritation, imagination. They would spend altogether too much time together, he would say nothing to give her any kind of clue as to what he was thinking or feeling, and she would be irked. Later, after she cooled off, she would slip into her imagination and play it out a little differently, experiment with one or two other endings, put words into his mouth and thoughts into his mind. She liked the power.

Right now she was going back over the things he had said to her tonight. _ Can you turn on the ALS? I'm going around back to process. I'll drive. Maybe her husband came home. _She wanted to take all of these words and mix them up, re-arrange them so that what he might tell her would mean something, anything at all beyond the sinking reiteration of his entirely professional courtesy.

_I'll drive you home. _Hmm, that could be constructed out of his crime scene small talk, and that, she decided, would be her starting point. It was where she always started, if she dared to allow herself to imagine how it might happen. If it weren't impossible. If it weren't a bad joke. If it weren't an impossibly bad joke that was her life.

Sara rolled her neck, pressing hard fingertips into knotted muscles at the nape, closing her now-beginning-to-ache eyes for a moment's respite. She inhaled deeply, her eyes snapping open happily as she smelled the coffee. _Excellent_. She knew it was usually only a waiting game until some one with more time to spare than her put some on. She flipped the file shut on the desk in front of her, tucked it under her arm and flicked the switch on the layout table. The light blinked off, leaving a white haze around the edges of her vision. She hated to admit it, but she needed a break.

Nick was struggling with the temperamental coffee machine. None of them were quite brave enough to really fight with it, nervous as they were of ever having their caffeine supply completely cut off. Today he was pressing all of the buttons, one after another, hard.

"Can't get it to stop." He held up his hands as Sara approached. She dropped the folder onto the table and headed for the fridge, nonchalantly giving the machine a controlled thump on her way past. It stopped abruptly, and Nick shook his head.

"Woman's touch," she teased, taking out milk and beginning the search for a clean mug.

"Police brutality, more like it." Sara smiled. She could always count on Nick to make her smile. He was just a genuinely good person.

"Did you get any results yet?"

"No," she said, indicating the folder on the table. "Nothing jumping out at me. And Trace is on a go slow. Well, back log, they call it, but whatever. What'd you get?"

"Nada, so far. Few partials."

"Maybe tomorrow will be better," Sara sighed, tired.

"That's not like you. Right around this time you're normally logging in for overtime." He was right.

"I'm tired," she said, truthfully. She was, and the seven hours processing evidence with Grissom had only worn her out all the more. It was still, even after the better part of five years in this lab, both exhilarating and devastating being in close proximity to him. It reminded her of all the things about him she found truly amazing. And all the reasons why she would only ever be admiring those things from a distance.

At first, she had approached the enigma of Grissom as a beautiful challenge. He was a mountain, she used to think, and my God was she going to move him. Their obvious connection had made her feel alive in a way she knew she hadn't since she discovered this profession. The moment she had set foot in the San Francisco lab and begun her first full day at work, she had known she was making utterly the right choice. Meeting him had felt the same way. It made so much sense, lucidity crashing down around her ears as she, inexplicably, knew exactly how she felt about him. A clarity she couldn't find with regard to her mother, or brother, or several guys she had gone to Grad school with who had tried, admirably, to fix her but left her just numb.

When she had moved to Vegas, she had never allowed herself to believe she was there because he had feelings for her. He respected her professionally, and that was enough. It was as sexy, easily, as the looks they shared in those early days. But as the months and years wore on, she felt something open up between them, a progression from their early chemistry to a deeper, more private bond. He said some things that told her everything – that he did, in essence, feel for her, but that he couldn't, in actuality, really feel for anyone. That she coped with, for a time. Until the power of what was between them rose up, obscuring all else, and she knew, she _knew_ that he felt it too. But where she embraced it, prepared for the first time in her life to really deal with herself, he just beat it down.

He had to be the one. She thought this still. Daily, she reminded herself in her characteristic self preservation lecture, that there could be no _one_. But she didn't believe it at all. There was one. One and only.

He was the only person to ever make Sara Sidle want to choose life over work. But when the moment for him to choose came, he still chose work.

Nick poured coffee into her mug before his own, another reason why she liked him. Such simple courtesy.

"You know its Catherine's birthday tomorrow?" He said, leaning back on the counter.

"No?" Sara didn't think Catherine had birthdays. She thought she was ageless.

"Yep. 35. At least, that's her story and she's sticking to it."

"I see." She smiled, shaking her head slightly about that kind of female vanity she really had no experience or understanding of. Nick sipped his coffee.

"She mentioned something about an early dinner. Would you be up for that?"

She supposed she probably had to. There were plenty of social occasions she could slip out of. Catherine's birthday probably was not one of them. Uneasy at the impending hours of exposure, the slightly uncomfortable but not altogether unpleasant time spent with almost-friends, Sara resigned herself to giving up a night of quiet, looming alone time. As much as she was embittered that she lived and breathed her own company, she sometimes hated to relinquish it.

She never felt truly alone anymore, anyway. He was always there. The ghost in the room, who wouldn't let her sleep but fitfully, wouldn't let her shower or dress without a slight flush of self-consciousness, wouldn't let her pick a tv program without considering whether, to his eyes, it would make her seem intelligent/interesting/obsessive/quirky. In her mind she came up with brilliant reasons for her decision to watch certain forensics shows she knew he hated, including research, fault-finding and keeping an eye on just how detached from reality the world of the media had become.

Actually, she was just fascinated by the dramatisation of what she called everyday. Of what made her get up in the morning. Privately, it made her feel connected to an outside world. To others who were like she was. In reality it was all as make believe as the inner dialogue she shared with him, the things she ached to tell and teach him, the things she wanted him to want to share with her, and Sara knew that part of the reason she functioned at all in society was the presence in her life of a tiny streak that erred on the side of fantasy.

She wanted to know what he thought about everything. She imagined how he might receive the canvases that hung in her bedroom, the colour of the walls, the way she thought the room reflected what she wanted to be rather than what she was. It's accents and compliments were just a whisper too well fitting to be _truly_ her – and she knew that in her mind when she had chosen them, when she had finally decided to decorate that room (last of all) after living there for a year, she had thought of him then, too.

Not because she was confident he would ever see inside of it. She wasn't sure at all, but, oh, she wanted him to, and having the perfect bedroom, one that she thought he would find a surprisingly complex representation of a woman he could do worse than fall for, was part of her defence against his reticence. Part of knowing that, really, there was nothing of substance that he would find wanting if he ever gave in. Part of knowing that she could play with the big kids, act like she wouldn't be content to live in someone else's basement for all she really cared about material things.

No, she would be functional, even in the privacy of her own home, and damn him if he never got to see that she was.


	2. Chapter 2

AN:

_DISCLAIMER – you know they're not mine. You know if they were Sara would NEVER wear those huge bug glasses (you know the ones) and San Francisco would remain just another city and not the bane of our lives. _

_Lyrics are from 'Fallen' and belong to Sarah McLachlan._

**But we carry on our backs the burden  
Time always reveals  
The lonely light of morning  
The wound that would not heal  
It's the bitter taste of losing everything  
That I have held so dear.**

Keeping up that appearance meant socialising, too, when the moment arose, and so Sara smiled not altogether unhappily at Catherine when she called across the parking lot to her that morning, and told her that she would go. She got into her car and called Greg, asking if they could go together. Sara had learned in school that the surest way to avoid attention was to stick with someone who demanded more than their share of it. Easy to fade into the background, be the afterthought, ride in on the coat tails of someone else's far more comprehensive social skills.

Shutting her cell, Sara pushed her key into the ignition and glanced up to see the lab doors open. Grissom pushed through the doors and strode out into the parking lot, phone held to one ear, kit in the other. He moved with purpose, reaching his car in seconds and loading the trunk. Sara could tell he had been called out, and she was faintly jealous that he had a hot case to attend to rather than an empty apartment to go home to. True, she could have continued with her own case, but it was going nowhere fast. Besides, it was a B&E. Sara hated those. She felt they were wasted on them. Why couldn't they teach the better cops how to take prints, for cases like those? Save the criminalists for the weightier matters.

Grissom looked around him, scanning the lot. He didn't see her, and she took the opportunity to watch him for a moment. Her phone rang, jolting her into action, and she flipped it open as her breathing slowed, feeling caught out. As though someone knew she was there, just watching him, when she should have been getting on with her life.

"Sidle."

"Hey, did you leave already?" Grissom's voice came through the line, bold and unfettered from just a few metres away, via some satellite somewhere. She liked the image. It summed them up. Unable to really communicate to one another without mediation.

"Uh, no. Not exactly. What's up?"

"I've got a 419, and dayshift can't take it. They're two down so far, and they've got a backlog bigger than ours." Sara smiled, knowing what was coming. It seemed everyone had a backlog today. Everyone but her.

"You want me to go with?" From her observation point she watched him slide into the driver's seat of the Denali.

"Yeah, if you can. Everyone else has gone." Ouch. That stung, that she was the last one he'd called, but she would take what she could get, as she always did where Grissom was concerned.

"I can, although technically I'm still on our B&E."

"Nick can handle that. Meet me in the parking lot in five." Sara smiled to herself. She got to work overtime, and with Grissom, and she got to hand off her less-than-inspiring case, all at the same time. To hell with sleep, this was better.

"I, uh, won't be that long." She replied, and clicked her phone shut. She reached into the backseat and pulled on her jacket, slid her sunglasses down from her hair onto her face and took one last deep breath.

She got out of her car, walked the eight short metres to his, and got in. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

"That _was_ fast." He said. She nodded. "I'm impressed," he added. _Tip of the iceberg,_ she thought, concealing a smirk. _You should see my bedroom walls._

Sara struggled all morning, more so than usual. Grissom was pressing all the right buttons. He was paying close attention to her theories, giving weight to her ideas when even she was sceptical of her science. He said something funny. He admitted he was tired. He did not, as would often happen, send her off to do one thing while he did another. They did everything in tandem, unison, teamwork.

She put it down to the large amount of time they had spent together the night before. When they worked doubles and triples, it often all began to bleed into one, and she knew that with circumstances as intense as the ones in which they operated, things were bound to feel loaded.

Still, as the morning wore on, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was different. Then she reminded herself that she had been his last thought. _Everyone else has gone._ The sting in the tail of that truth set her momentarily straight. Long enough to begin to feel tired herself.

The scene didn't take as long as some. They were back in the Denali within three hours, and Sara was searching for conversation to stifle her yawns.

"Did you know tomorrow is Catherine's birthday?" Grissom looked at her from the driver's seat, and she felt stupid. "Of course you do. Sorry, I know you've known her a long time, I just didn't think you kept track of things like that." _Stop talking,_ she told herself.

"Actually, thank you for reminding me."

She laughed. "I take it you haven't been corralled into going to dinner, then?" Grissom's mouth twitched in interest.

"No, have _you_?" He said it with surprise, with incredulity, as though the thought of her socialising was, somehow..wrong. It hurt.

"Yes, I have." Her voice was almost haughty, she realised, too late. He didn't react. There was a moment's awkward silence, before Sara steamrollered on, thinking as she did that one of these days she would really have to learn to shut up.

"I guess you have the ultimate get out of jail free card, being the boss."

"Sara, I'm not abstaining. I just haven't been invited." _Oh._

"Oh." It took her a moment to see he was smiling, and she felt her cheeks colour just a shade.

They were silent for the rest of the journey, a return to the familiar antisocial sociability that was the two of them together. On a good day, as Sara had begun to think this one was, they were alight with science and sass. On a downturn, they were black, Sara tending towards overcompensation and oversensitivity, Grissom towards silence and ice cool professionalism.

As they pulled up in the lab parking lot, Sara turned to him as she unbuckled her seat belt.

"If you were invited, would you be going?" She tried to keep it light. Tried to keep the tone neutral, the wait for his response casual. She hopped out of the car as he unbuckled his own belt.

"I.. uh." He paused, wrinkled his brow, looking at her over the passenger seat. "I don't like to mix business with pleasure." She smiled, the wide, false, sarcastic smile she reserved for acrid moments like this.

"And don't I just know it." She slammed the door, setting her gaze on the lab and stalking in that direction before he could make head nor tail of what had just happened. _So fire me_, she thought, in defiance, knowing full well that he would do nothing, for doing anything would involve discussing what had prompted her words, and, she thought bitterly, _God forbid he had to do that_.

So much for something being different. As Sara opened the door to her very empty home an hour later the nothingness therein reminded her with a low blow just how normal this was.

That night, Greg was excitable. Perhaps because Sara had given him permission to pick her up, even to come over a bit early, if he brought a few cold beers with him. Maybe because he deep down missed his family, and this group dinner made him feel like part of a community. Or maybe because he thought there was a faint chance of Sara wearing something he'd like and engaging in some innocent banter outside of work. Whatever it was, an hour into their shift, Sara was ready to do him an injury.

"I don't think Grissom's going, you know." Greg leaned against the layout table beside her, their heads bowed over crime scene photographs, the magnifier, a notepad and some small, sealed evidence bags nearby, awaiting their turn.

"I know." Sara barely paused in what she was doing.

"Really? Did he actually say he wasn't going?"

"Uh.. he said he hadn't been invited."

"_Really_? Curious indeed, my dear Watson."

Sara shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Yeah, whatever, Greg. Can we get on?"

"Someone's cranky cos they've got to wear a dress," Greg teased, elbowing her. Sara stood up straight, giving momentary relief to her back while she admonished him. Two birds, one stone.

"Greg, the only _dress_ I own is my _ad_dress, and I'm beginning to regret even allowing you to see _that_."

Greg held up his hand, gleeful, boyish.

"I'll be good, I swear. No dresses. Nothing girly. Nothing that might make you feel like you're feminine or indeed at all having a good time. Got it." She had to smile.

Sara didn't see Grissom until the early hours of the shift. When she had arrived that night she had enlisted Greg to help her process the evidence they had collected that morning, and knew that Grissom was out with PD interviewing a possible suspect. He returned as she was pulling her pager from her belt, the coroner wanting to talk to her about Toxicology results. She stood, half in and half out of the layout room, and filled him in, quickly, efficiently, taking care not to imbue her account with any unnecessary details or dithering. She was the consummate professional, not the petulant girl who had slammed the door in his face eight hours earlier. Alright, so she was a little of both, but she was damned if she was going to let him know that.

Grissom listened diligently.

"Thank you," he said, simply, and began to walk away from her towards his office.

"Uh., Grissom?" He turned.

"Aren't you going to fill _me_ in?" He thought about this for a moment.

"Oh, right. Right." He did, then, but Sara was barely listening as she fought the sinking feeling spreading through her chest, the feeling that she was being left behind. He told her about the suspect who had turned out to have a possible alibi and about the remainder of the morning's evidence he wanted to return to. He was perfunctory, polite, and she hated it.

"Are you coming with me to talk to Robbins?" She asked, trying to keep her voice level.

"No. You can handle it." Once this would have filled her with pride and drive. Not today.

"Right. You want me to call you, when I'm done there?" He shrugged.

"Sure."

Her stomach was sinking faster than ever before. Behind them, Catherine and Warrick left the break room and sauntered down the hall towards the outside world, deep in conversation, an open file held between them.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she said, finally, with a sigh, lowering her voice slightly.

"Sorry for what?"

"I was.. you know. I shouldn't have slammed the door." Grissom shrugged.

"Did you?" He said, innocently.

Sara gaped at him. "_Did_ I?" She felt her temperature rise a notch. "Are you kidding?" He shook his head.

"What?" He was open faced, oblivious.

She held up both hands, turned to go. "Never mind."

She was gone before he could make it any worse.

She reached the locker room and ducked inside quickly, opening her little cubby to collect her jacket and keys. She shut the door a little harder than she needed to and turned quickly to find Grissom blocking her escape. He took one step towards her and bent his head, lowering his voice to a near-whisper.

"Look, I know that you're pissed off, Sara. Of course I noticed that you slammed the door earlier, and I'm sure I said something to warrant it, but I'm damned if I'm going to stand in a high traffic hallway of the lab and discuss it with you!" He was indignant, voice high even as he kept it low.

"You're _sure_ you said something to warrant it? You have no idea what that was?" Sara shot back, incredulous.

"I can guess."

She nodded, her eyes trained on anything that wasn't him. "And you think that's okay? I only asked if you were going. I thought it was pretty simple."

He looked at her as though she'd just fallen through the ceiling. "Of course I'm not _going_. I'm not going to put myself in a situation like that with you surrounded by everyone we work with. Or full stop, for that matter? Isn't this hard enough? Don't you _make this_ hard enough?"

Sara's eyes were hard. She dared a tear to form, her anger threatening to burn it up before it was born. A moment she had always thought she would treasure, the admission of _something_, _anything_ between them, marred by the tirade of buck-passing.

"Actually, right now it seems pretty easy," she said, and slipped her jacket on. He pinched the bridge of his nose. When he spoke his voice had softened.

"Sara.. if I go.. if we both go..." He looked at her, demanding that she make the leap on her own, as though she should know exactly what he was trying to say. " I can't allow that to happen. For both our sakes."

Sara paused with one hand on the door. She did know, of course, but she wasn't going to make it any easier for him. "Can't? Or won't?".

"Sara.." She bowed her head, nodding as she flexed her fingers around the handle. As if she didn't know.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise being in my presence was so unpleasant for you. You know Catherine much better than I do, if you want to go, just say the word, and I'll make an excuse. She'd expect that from me anyway…" She opened the door, as he tried to interject.

"I don't want to – "

But she cut him off, determined to have the last word. "And don't insult me by pretending you're doing any of this for _my sake,_" she finished, and was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Sara was almost defiant

_DISCLAIMER – you know they're not mine. You know if they were Sara would NEVER wear those huge bug glasses (you know the ones) and San Francisco would remain just another city and not the bane of our lives. _

_Lyrics are from 'Fallen' and belong to Sarah McLachlan._

**I've fallen...  
I have sunk so low  
I have messed up  
Better I should know  
So don't come round here  
And tell me I told you so...**

Sara was almost defiant. When dawn broke, she sought out Catherine to wish her a very cheerful happy birthday, and feigned some interest in what Catherine was wearing to her dinner, information which only lodged in Sara's brain long enough to register that she wasn't wearing a dress either, so Greg be damned.

As her shift ended, she walked directly to Grissom's office, and dropped the file containing the scrupulously attentive report on the case in progress on his messy desk, glad that he wasn't there. She slept, very deeply, for four hours, and sat up wide awake. She took a long, hot bath, knowing that somewhere inside of her was a woman who could get some mild pleasure out of the getting-ready routine, and coaxed her forth.

Greg arrived at five, beer in hand, and sat faithfully on her couch while she got dressed in her bedroom, engaging her in good natured conversation and making her sure that, whatever tonight was not, it _was_ a good opportunity to show allegiance to a few people she often overlooked in favour of someone who overlooked her in favour of _everything_. Or so it seemed.

At six thirty, she looked at herself in the mirror. The condensation from her beer bottle had crept onto the glass where the two objects had touched. She wiped it away. The Sara who cared what Grissom thought would have been thinking she should be drinking wine, that that would show more maturity, and taste. But that Sara was still in the locker room, reeling from the best and worst things he had ever said to her. This was her apartment. This was her life, her decisions, her choices. No accountability in here. He was never going to set foot in this bedroom, she decided, rather than accepted, and pushed him from her mind.

Greg whistled when she appeared, and she pretended not to be even a little flattered by it.

"You look… the same… but different." She narrowed her eyes at him and he shook his head happily. "In a good way, don't worry."

Did she look different? Sara imagined it was just how royally pissed off she was, registering in her expression. She had done little else, really. Her hair was down, freshly washed and with wide, loose ringlets, something that fortunately for her, wasn't too hard to effect with her natural curls. She wore just a little make up. Black trousers, just plain, but she had to admit they did fit particularly well. A delicate black sweater that wrapped snugly around her, tied in place. A leather jacket. Things she had just pulled from her closet, but for some reason she was wearing them differently today.

She was hurting. And she was determined. And she knew tonight wasn't going to make it any better, come time to go to work tomorrow. But in the meantime, it was a nice distraction. And if the rest of the team reported back to Grissom that she turned out well and was good company, well, what a shame that would be, she thought, as she sipped her beer. For a moment she wondered if she should offer to drive, to maintain control, to keep her distance. Then she realised that would just be a great excuse not to enjoy herself.

She had the night off, and she was actually going to take a night off. Not just from work. From the fatigue of wondering, wishing, trying to place herself somewhere close to something she suddenly saw she would never have.

Catherine had chosen a place on the Strip, unsurprisingly. In fact, true to Catherine's taste, she had chosen an exclusive looking hotel bistro with low, red-gold lighting and deep walnut furnishings. A far cry from Frank's, the only real social setting they were accustomed to seeing one another in. They were seated along a back wall, their table beautifully laid out and candle lit. Grissom had been right. This wasn't an experience they'd have escaped from. She felt another bitter pang at his words, and seated herself between Catherine and Warrick, reading Warrick's look to mean that he badly needed someone to sit between him and the birthday girl, who looked, quite simply, stunning.

An hour later, there was nothing to be done but admit that she was having a good time. Greg was on great form, charming, funny. Nick and Warrick enjoyed teasing him, and Catherine was in a buoyant mood, enjoying the attention. Sara found herself making conversation and not even minding when it turned to Lindsey and the problems Catherine was having with Butterfield since she had enrolled her there.

Inevitably, the conversation came around to Grissom, and Sara listened as the team made gentle fun of his lack of social skills. Catherine, who also had the night off, swilled her Chardonnay around her oversized glass, wonderfully relaxed, and told them of Grissom's promise to compensate for missing dinner. Greg raised his eyebrows and made the innuendo that only Greg would bother to make. Nick and Warrick knew, in the way that big brothers know, where Sara's affections lay, and Warrick, for all his protestations, would be the last to imagine Catherine with anyone.

Sara felt strangely sad at the mention of his name. The wine, maybe, making her melancholy. She was in the place just past stone cold sober, the soft, warm chaise longue of a feeling that allowed her to lose the worst of her edge but keep her wits about her. She didn't want any more, but she liked it. She felt comfortable, human. Something close to….normal.

After dinner they retired to the bar, quiet on a Wednesday night. Sara leant easily against the smooth oak of the bar top, deep in conversation with Nick, conscious of the others behind and beside her.

Later she would remember three things. The smell of vanilla from the candles on the bar as it ebbed up to her senses. The texture of the thick wood beneath her hands as it held her up. And the sensation that overcame her as something made her turn, just enough to see out of the corner of her eye, Catherine hugging someone. She saw expensive charcoal fabric, a flash of silver and tanned skin. Nick looked over her shoulder and the expression on his face confirmed it. He went to join them. And left Sara feeling like she was picking herself up off the floor.

"What are you doing here?" Catherine was saying, clearly delighted to see him.

"I told you I'd make it up to you for missing dinner."

"By joining me in the bar?" She was shocked, but enjoying every moment.

"Yes."

"Right on," Catherine said, and motioned to the bartender. Grissom placed a hand over hers.

"No, let me."

Sara felt her blood stop as he stepped closer to where she stood. She was only half facing him. There was a space behind her, where Catherine stood, but he moved to the other side, putting her between him and the rest of the room. The smooth fabric of his jacket slid across her as he leant into the curve of the bar, signalling to the bartender himself.

"Hi," he said, and she was sold. Just his voice was enough. It took her right back to the moment they met and a shiver like the one she had felt that day inched its way up her spine.

"Hello," she said, carefully, keen not to betray her inner tumult. He let out a long, slow breath, not quite a sigh.

"Can I..?" he began, gesturing towards the bar but leaving the sentence hanging.

She tipped her glass towards him and shook her head gently. "No, thank you."

He ordered, and then half turned to her, and she hardly dared look at him. The mere actuality of Grissom, so unexpectedly well dressed, smelling unbelievable, ordering a Scotch, was too much.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly.

She nodded. "It's okay…what you said…you..." She was interrupted by the bartender returning with his drink. He took a sip, and turned fully towards her.

She inched her eyes upwards, and met his, which bore unabashedly down into her.

"I do make things hard for myself," she sighed. He took a deep breath, and looked away, watched the liquor in his short glass seep down over the ice within.

"I don't find being in your presence unpleasant. And I'm sorry that I made you think that. And you're not the only one who makes things difficult, and I'm sorry for that, too."

He stepped back, pushing off from the bar, and walked back towards Catherine, handing her a drink and joining the circle that had formed around her, leaving Sara to wonder what in hell that meant.

Unsure what to do with herself, Sara made a discreet trip to the restroom, buying some time. She stood against the stall door and tried to make sense of it. He was there. He had chosen to be there, after everything he had said, after telling her it would be too hard, and insinuating that being in a situation like this would make maintaining their professional distance a struggle. But what to make of his submission? That he cared too much about Catherine not to come? That he was pissed at her like she had been pissed at him and decided to come anyway and bear the discomfort? Or that, and dare she even think it, that knowing how this might go, he had up and walked right into the fire?

She returned to the bar and ordered a soda, needing her head to remain clear if she was going to make it through the rest of the night unscathed. She thanked something above or beyond that she had drank so little thus far. The last thing she needed was lowered inhibitions or a loose tongue. Sara took her drink and re-joined the small huddle of CSI's a few feet away.

It _was_ hard. Grissom was bordering on sociable, talking easily to Nick and Warrick, smiling ruefully at Greg's mildly juvenile chatter. He listened attentively to Catherine and only talked about work around fifty percent of the time. From her position between Nick and Greg, she allowed herself to look at him, really look. That suit, she could scarcely tear her eyes from it. She had no idea Grissom owned such a thing. It was so… beautiful. A delicate mix of formal and casual, somewhere between the kind you would see in a court room and the kind you would see in an exclusive nightclub. Beneath it he wore a deep red shirt. It made her wonder if he dated. If he had an entire private life she knew nothing of. If her attentions were just last in a long line of far more eligible, less screwed up, not complicated by work type scenarios.

He had a different air about him, one of confidence she had so rarely seen. She was having the sensation she had been here before, even though this was all so new. It was like.. like.. it was somewhere in the back of her mind and she couldn't reach it.

Grissom looked across at her, a steely, certain gaze, and it clicked.

_Like the day he'd shown up at the court room, after they'd each been shot down in flames by Tom Haviland's dollar-a-word attorney. He'd taken the stand, at long last, and ripped the defence to shreds. And walked out of there with his head held high, flanked by his team, wearing a look that said 'we do not negotiate with terrorists'. _ He was wearing a similar look now. And he was directing it right at her.

_Okay_, she thought. _Okay_. _You've got my attention. _


	4. Chapter 4

Around nine o' clock Nick began to get restless

_DISCLAIMER – you know they're not mine. You know if they were Sara would NEVER wear those huge bug glasses (you know the ones) and San Francisco would remain just another city and not the bane of our lives. _

_Lyrics are from 'Fallen' and belong to Sarah McLachlan._

**Truth be told I've tried my best  
But somewhere along the way  
I got caught up in all there was to offer  
And the cost was so much more than I could bear**

Around nine o' clock Nick began to get restless. "I'm thinking, since it's your birthday, you ought to at least win some money, buy us all a drink," he said. Catherine's face lit up.

"You any good at poker?" She asked Nick, who shook his head happily.

"Not at all. But I know some guys who are," he said, inclining his head towards Grissom and Warrick.

"Grissom? You play poker?" Greg asked, curious.

"Not these days," he replied, setting down his empty glass.

"Yeah well neither do I, but we can all make an exception for a birthday girl," Warrick said, his voice rich like chocolate, glancing at Catherine, who rewarded him with a mildly seductive smile as she picked up her clutch.

"Come on, before any of you decide it's time to go to work."

They walked deeper into the plush hotel, which wasn't a Braun, Sara noticed fleetingly as Greg drew up beside her, tucking his arm into hers.

"Do you play?" He asked, excitable again.

"A little." She replied, shrugging one shoulder. She didn't mind poker, but she didn't get any great pleasure from it, cerebral though it was.

The casino was busier than the bar and restaurant, and they only managed to find a table with a couple of empty seats. Warrick, Nick and Catherine sat down, Warrick unfolding some bills and laying them down in front of Catherine, motioning to the dealer in a practiced manner. As they settled, a fourth seat opened up on the other side of the table, and Grissom pointed Greg in its direction.

"If you can beat Warrick, I'll think about a pay rise."

"Really?"

"No. But you might learn something." Greg snorted quietly at Grissom and took up his place, pulling a few bills from his pants pocket and nodding at Catherine across the table.

A moment passed as Sara took in the fact that they were standing together, a few feet apart, and she had watched him give up the opportunity to get away from her.

"Don't you want to play?" She asked. Grissom shook his head slowly.

"I prefer to play with strangers. Poker is a thinking game. Not a.. Greg..game." Sara smirked, nodding, understanding exactly what he meant. "And," he added, quietly, " I don't think my mind would be at the table tonight."

He looked her right in the eye, asking her silently if she understood. She thought she did. But unlike how she had dreamed this moment, the sky did not fall in, the building did not shake, the world did not change. He did not run, or begin to convulse, or suddenly morph into her high school science teacher who had told her to stop reading so far ahead of the class. He just looked at her, until Catherine won the first hand, and her victory cheer brought them back to earth.

An hour later, the poker players were verging on raucous, and Catherine had a pile of chips in front of her not unlike the one that started Sam Braun's career, Sara bet. She watched her friends, envied how completely relaxed they were, wished she was able to be that much of a joiner. She had been sociable tonight, she knew that, but she also knew that Catherine's birthday would have passed just as happily without her.

As ten thirty approached, Sara felt sorry that she wasn't going to work. Sorry that once again she'd be going home alone. She looked at the three CSI's highrolling one another into next month's pay packet and felt sorry that they had to think about going soon. Then a thought occurred to her, and she turned to Grissom, keeping her voice low, a small thrill spreading as he leant in to listen.

"Do we have a lot on tonight?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, until I get there. Only our case pending. And anything else that comes in."

"Wednesday's a quiet night, though, usually."

"For Vegas," he smiled. She smiled back and inclined her head to the poker table.

"Lets… lets leave them here." She said. His face opened, eyes moving from side to side, thinking about what she had said.

"I mean, can we? I had the night off, but I'm really quite happy to work."

"You're always happy to work. Doesn't mean you don't need time off."

"Yeah, but look at them. Catherine'll have a better night if they stay with her. Can we just… try and cover it between us, or have them come in when they're done here? They're all sober."

Grissom tilted his head, reading her. "Okay. Barring anything major, sure. They can stay."

"Thank you." She smiled at him, almost conspiratorially, and realised that her motives were not as pure as she had let on. Yes, she hated not to work, and yes, she wanted to give the others a night off. _But what is this really about, Sidle?_ She asked herself. Grissom was looking at her. That would be it. Just the thought of having to break this moment, and not see him for another twelve hours. _Right_, she thought. _Maybe that's it._

"That's a really nice thing to do, Sara," he said, sincerely. Yes. That _was_ it. She rolled her eyes, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance when inside she was quickly thawing. How was it she couldn't stay even a little bit mad at him?

"What, making more work for you?"

"You know what I mean."

"Well, you know. I have my moments." Grissom cleared his throat, and let out a low chuckle.

"Don't I know it," he said. She shot him a sideways look, and a half hearted glare. He shot one back, and they were both smiling, and she inexplicably couldn't feel her feet.

The feeling returned as Grissom pulled up in her parking lot. The others had taken very little convincing, and she had not even needed to ask for a ride. He seemed to know instinctively that she had not driven. Neither did he need to be asked if they could swing by her apartment so she could change. He was turning onto her street before she could process where they were. Grissom assured her he had a change of clothes at the lab, so she could take her time. The car idled as he put it into park.

"Do you want to come in?"

"I don't mind waiting," he said. The night seemed quiet now they were free of the bustling casino.

"Up to you. But it'll take me five minutes to change. That leaves about twenty minutes for coffee. If you want."

Grissom thought for a moment before sliding the keys out of the ignition. "Well, alright then. Seeing as you've volunteered us to do all the work tonight."

Sara gave him another of her withering, sarcastic smiles, took a deep breath and led him into the building. At the double doors he stepped to the side of her and opened them, placing his hand in the small of her back to guide her in. It was protective, it was gentle. It made her want to dash him back into the wall and be up against him, right there, in the dark hallway of her apartment block.

She did not think about the reality of Gil Grissom coming into her home. It just felt right. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, pausing to drop her keys on the counter just inside. He was coming through the door behind her, the very well cut charcoal jacket he was wearing a beautiful ashen grain against her aubergine walls. It all looked so damn right, Grissom there, following her in, slipping easily into position leaning on her counter as she turned the coffee machine on. He wasn't uncomfortable, she could tell, but he was processing, like she was, the moments they were wading through and the resistance they were –or not- feeling.

She set out mugs and milk and sugar on the worktop, and then slid her leather jacket down her arms, turning to catch his gaze. His eyes were dark, watching her. She looked back for a moment, wondering if there was something to be said.

"Here," she gestured to the mugs. "I just have to change." He nodded, coming around the counter to attend to the coffee.

"Shame, he said, quietly, stopping her in her tracks as she went to walk away, "you look amazing." There was a weight around them, pulling them in, closing gaps and eroding reasons and washing away the missteps this awkward dance had demanded of them in the past. Sara felt the smile spreading over her face, and let it slip to the side, mischief radiating from her.

"Yeah," she said, backing up, "the guy who was here earlier said something like that, too." She cocked her head to one side, playfully, and turned. She disappeared from his view, but still heard his laughter. She let him sweat a moment, until she heard the clink of a teaspoon in a mug.

"In case you're wondering," she called out, opening her closet, "that was Greg."

Sara put on jeans and a sweater, her usual work attire, although she possibly paid a moment's more attention than usual to just _which_ sweater and jeans she chose. She took off her jewellery and pulled a more casual jacket from her closet. Feeling much more like herself, she emerged, pulling a brush through her hair. Grissom leaned casually on the counter, sipping coffee.

"Am I going to have to remind you and Greg about the lab's policy on romantic relationships?"

Sara shook her head. "Greg, maybe. I've seen the way he looks at Hodges. Me, no. I read the lab policy every night before bed."

Grissom laughed out loud, and Sara wondered if she was funnier around him, or if he just made her feel that way. Maybe it was because he made her really think about the things she wanted to say.

"Then you know I could get fired for just being here."

She placed her hands on her hips. "No shit."

"Sara.." He was serious. She went towards him instinctively.

"I know, I _know_," she said, her voice softening, the joke over, "But you _are_ here. And I'm glad that you're here." He nodded, opened his mouth to speak, but she went on before he could. "And no-one knows about it, and no-one has to. You've already got away with it, so just consider this one a freebie."

"Kind of like a get out of jail free card?" He teased.

"Are you storing up _everything_ I say to throw back at me?" They were both smiling. There was a current in the air, and the sound of Grissom setting his mug down on the counter seemed to echo, deafeningly. She was afraid of what came next, and impatient to know, nonetheless.

"Not everything," he said, taking her hand again, "just the best bits." She moved closer to him, this time, their hands joined loosely, tentatively. He moved, too, and before she knew what was happening he was holding her, gently, hugging her. It was the sweetest moment of her life. She felt her heart gather pace, and allowed herself to take in his scent, some great smelling cologne that she would now recognise at three hundred yards.

Through her hair, Grissom spoke.

"I don't know what to say…how to..." Surprised to find herself feeling more than a little overwhelmed, Sara slid her arms around him a little more, resting her head on his shoulder.

"You don't have to say anything."

Grissom breathed out against her. "I owe you _some_thing." Sara blinked. Could this be happening?

"You don't," she said, softly.

"I've played this so very badly," he said, shaking his head slightly. Almost imperceptibly. Sara had never loved him so much.

"I think.. it's fair to say I've made my share of bad moves, too. For example, right now, I have no idea what's going on." She hardly dared say it, but the grip around her only tightened as he thought it over. Together they swayed just a fraction, a sort of soothing motion.

"I don't know either. I couldn't stay away tonight. I needed to see you." His words were like brandy, slipping down her throat, warming her from the inside.

"I'm glad you came," she whispered into his jacket, trying not to think about what she would do if this all came and went before her very eyes. She ached to pull him into a kiss. It would be such a small step from where they were. One small step. But one giant step for Grissom.

She pictured herself at the end of the forthcoming shift, sitting in her car, watching him walking quickly to his, calling someone on his phone to accompany him on an urgent 419. She imagined her cell lying silent on the seat beside her, and realised that any sudden movements could mean the difference between being the last one he called and the one he never called at all.

She gathered all of her strength, resolve and the backbone that had propelled her from damaged child to healthy adult and did the last thing she wanted to do.

"Come on," she said, placing her hands on his chest and putting some space between them, "let's go to work." He was genuinely surprised, and opened his mouth to say something. She got there first, stepping back another foot.

"Look, we can stand here and try to figure this out, which could result in either one of us bolting, or spontaneously combusting, or at the very least regretting something tomorrow. Or we could just..leave it at this… and go to work, and just… see what happens."

"You mean the next time we end up at the same social function?" He joked. She laughed.

"Yeah. Bound to happen," she smirked, and he nodded, the tension easing.

"Okay," he nodded. She squeezed his hand once, conspiratorially, and then broke the closeness between them, ducking into her bedroom to turn off lights and grab her ID.

At the door, he stopped her.

"I do have regrets, you know. When it comes to you." She nodded, her eyes prickling a little. "But whatever might have happened or not happened tonight, I don't expect this to become one of them."

His hand found her back again as they passed back into the night. _I could get used to that_, she thought.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a quiet night in the lab

_AN: This is the final chapter. Thank you to all who have stopped by. I thought this would be three chapters, but as usual it has grown! Please let me know what you think – I love to write about these two and if I think others enjoy reading it it'll spur me on to do so more often (that is, put off all the other things I have to do in order to just write fanfic – yay.)_

_DISCLAIMER – you know they're not mine. You know if they were Sara would NEVER wear those huge bug glasses (you know the ones) and San Francisco would remain just another city and not the bane of our lives. _

_Lyrics are from 'Fallen' and belong to Sarah McLachlan._

**Heaven bent to take my hand  
And lead me through the fire  
Be the long awaited answer  
To a long and painful fight**

It was a quiet night in the lab. Sara spent the first half of it in the layout room, the entire space beginning to take on a glazed, white quality as the light and the hour wore away at her. She much preferred the nights where she spent her time in the field, or on the hop, driving, talking, answering the phone and throwing together pieces of the puzzle again and again until something fit.

It was productive, however. She finished the paperwork on the B&E that Nick had, thankfully, wrapped up. She spent some quality time with the magnifier and then waded through several lots of trace analysis for the more recent case she and Grissom had worked the day before. She was just beginning to wonder if she'd ever see the outside world, or Grissom, again when he appeared in the doorway.

"Hey," he said, leaning on the jamb.

"Hey."

"We got a 419." Grissom waved the little assignment slip in the air, then tucked it inside his vest.

"I never thought I'd say this, but thank God."

"Suspected body dump. Female victim found on the shore of Lake Mead, close to one of the picnic spots."

"Washed up?" She was out of her seat already, her jacket slung over one shoulder as her legs protested at the sudden movement.

"Let's find out."

She drove. Grissom rolled down the passenger side window and leant his arm casually on the door mount. The night air was beautiful, soft and close, even in its rush. When they got closer to the lake, he gave her directions, according to the piece of paper he had been given by Dispatch.

"This one," he said, motioning to the approaching side road. Sara swung the Tahoe off the main loop and down the smaller track, which opened out into a large gravelled lot. At its base was a wide dust track leading down to the water's edge. Sara blinked as she pulled the truck to a stop.

"No blue and reds?" She asked, looking back over her shoulder.

Grissom sat back. "Huh."

"Is this the right place?"

"Definitely. The Ranger made the call from the station, I guess he hasn't made it back down here yet."

"Well, someone's on the fast track for promotion," she grumbled, sliding down from the seat to the ground, "Isn't that on law enforcement 101, never leave a crime scene unattended?"

"Needs must?" Grissom supposed, joining her in the dark lot. "If his radio was broken, he'd have no choice."

They left the Tahoe's lights shining on the path ahead of them and walked briskly to its mouth. They had gone thirty or forty metres along the path when Sara stopped, looking around her.

"It's dark as hell," she said, putting down her kit to search for her flashlight. In the silence the sound of the water lapping at the shore was just audible.

The beam from her maglite cut a small swathe through the dark earth ahead of them, lighting their way but just barely. Grissom's joined it, making a scissor movement across the grass to either side.

When Sara felt the lap of the water on her shoe and the stiff breeze roll off the lake and take her hair, she began to suspect something was off.

"This isn't right," she said, one hand snaking back to her hip to check her weapon was in its place. Her heartbeat made a steady incline as she put down her kit slowly.

"Grissom?"

"This is definitely the place," he said, fluttering the assignment slip.

"Let me see that," she said, plucking it from his hands, all the while taking in their surroundings, keeping her eyes and ears on full alert. She had no idea why they were there, but she felt damn sure there was no 419 waiting for them. It felt wrong.

She shone her flashlight on the slip. And then it all felt so, so right.

Written across the slip of paper was one sentence only;

"_For all the sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been"_

She turned towards him in the dusky wind, her hair moving around her face, the uneven light from their torches and the Tahoe bouncing askew, illuminating odd angles. She saw the name on his vest, bright in the dark, and thought of how many times in her life that sight had been the only comfort she'd known. She saw a ripple in the water to his left. She saw the unwavering path of his gaze, fixed and firm on her. She let time wander by, slowly allowing the reality of what was happening to latch onto her. She had to be sure. It seemed pretty undeniable. She saw them as they were now, different to how they had always chosen to be. She saw them on an edge, and knew that they would never leave here the way they came. But she had to be _sure_. Things like this didn't happen to her.

"It's Whittier, in case you were wondering," he said, setting down his kit. _Yeah_, she thought_, like that's what I was thinking about_.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Grissom moved to stand beside her. They stood facing the lake. He dug his hands into his pockets and looked out onto the water.

"I believe for now it may be better to focus on what I _do_ know."

She hardly dared speak. Her heart pounded in her chest. "And that is..?"

Grissom took a deep breath, his shoulder warm against hers. "I know I can't make sense of what goes through my mind when I look at you. I can't be clear headed when you're near me. I know that I'm past the point of trying to ignore it, or evade it. I know that doesn't work anymore."

His eyes danced from side to side, following the ripples of the water beyond them. There was the faint sound of a bird calling some way off, and the closer, more distinctive rumble of a mountain moving as Grissom's fingers curled slowly and tentatively into hers.

"I know I've tried really hard not to feel this way about you, but there's just no point. Because I do." He laced his fingers into hers. "I'm sorry I can't put it into better words than those."

Sara sighed deeply, moved. Her hair shifted in the light breeze and she looked at him through its thin veil. "That's good enough for me."

Finally, he turned to look at her. "I don't think I'll ever be good enough for you," he said, his eyes for the first time ever just at rest – she saw no fight and no tousle, no resistance and no regret. She saw a man she had followed become a man she might now always walk beside. She saw love, and was surprised to find she recognised it.

She slid her arm around his waist, tugging him to face her fully. She let her hands tiptoe slowly up his vest, feeling the tough fabric in a hundred new ways. She touched the hint of stubble on his face, wanting to feel it on hers and wondered in a crazy, slipping, tipping, over the edge moment, if this was real. " I'm sorry," she began, "but I just don't agree."

A thousand thoughts crashed through her mind as his face was suddenly mere inches from hers. She laid both palms on the skin of his neck, stroking, her eyes heavy with the moment. In her head she saw silent ice, his breath mixing with hers, heard words spoken that had sent her flying, emotionally. She took a breath, and saw late afternoon light. Heard _I need you_. She saw the wall over his shoulder as he moved into her, heard her own voice in an unfamiliar register, almost purring. _Pin me down._

She let the breath escape her, and saw his thumbs crease the edges of a file, saw him look away, saw him form words. _I haven't seen you in a while, have I?_ She saw a dead pig and a Vegas night and smelt the coffee that had smoked quietly between them. As he got closer, impossibly close, without touching, she saw dust, dirt and a billboard high above her. She felt herself turning around and knowing that, just like tonight, just like now, he had found her, been drawn to her, as she was to him, a force field that they were no longer fighting. A small sigh escaped his lips, and she felt it. She knew they were right on the edge of the rest of their lives. _You are the one_, she thought, and his eyes flashed open as though she had said it out loud. Her eyes fell shut, the final straw between them, and he was kissing her, knocking the remaining breath from her body and thoughts from her mind.

It was like nothing else on earth. It was the first and the last of everything – the moment she moved, really moved, out of the shell of her young, broken self and into the woman she had always tried to be. As his tongue ran so lightly across her lips, daring and begging her to respond, she knew she was going to be alright. It wasn't about the colours of her walls (although she stood by the aubergine) or the art she hung or the books she left lying around safe in the knowledge he would never see them. This would take everything she had, and was worth everything she would ever have. He was the only thing to which she had ever given every last part of herself. He was the final touch.

And yet it felt like the first touch. Her skin was a wilderness, and he made his way, each step a new and beautiful thing. She was shaking, and unashamed of it. This was more than just a big deal, and they both knew it. She didn't worry that the moment would dawn on him. They were not carried away, not unthinking, not bewitched. They were finally facing it, and he wasn't backing away. He held her without reserve, his arms strong and caring, both discovering and protecting her at once.

They kissed for a long time, sweet, soft touches that left them breathless, giddy.

His head rested lightly against hers as they took long breaths, resting, letting the racing beats of their hearts slow, letting the night air cool their hot skin.

"There's so much to say, Sara. I don't even know where to begin." Sara smiled, her lips against his skin.

"Does any of it even matter now?" They were inexplicably comfortable with one another in a way they had never come close to before. She didn't think twice about taking his hand. He didn't hesitate before slipping his thumb into the small space where her sweater and jeans did not quite meet.

"Probably not," he said, stroking her skin lightly.

"Really all that matters is whether or not you're getting ready to run." She murmured, lips against his cheek, still, seeking a moment's rest from the senses she had forgotten she owned.

"You know I'm not."

"You have before. It's hard to.. not remember that."

He gathered her tighter into his arms and pressed his lips against her neck, sending a shot of heat and light straight through her, making her close her eyes momentarily.

"You can remember all you want," he said, his lips finding hers in a long, lingering kiss, "but I promise you, eventually, I'm going to make you forget."


End file.
